Butterflies and Hurricanes
by Oldach's Dream
Summary: Sibling relationships outlast marriages, survive the death of parents, resurface after quarrels that would sink any friendship.  They flourish in a thousand incarnations of closeness and distance, warmth, loyalty and distrust.
1. Prologue

By: Oldach's Dream

Disclaimer: They're not mine

Summary: Sibling relationships outlast marriages, survive the death of parents, resurface after quarrels that would sink any friendship. They flourish in a thousand incarnations of closeness and distance, warmth, loyalty and distrust.

Butterflies and Hurricanes

_Prologue: _

* * *

_A new mother makes a promise to her child. "I will take care of you." She says._

_-Judging Amy_

* * *

Mary made a pledge to her child. "I will love you, Dean." She promised with all her heart and soul, "You will be mine to love forever."

John looked over her shoulder, "I will protect you, son." He whispered, arms circling his wife's frame lovingly. "I will protect you forever."

* * *

Mary made a pledge to her child. "I will protect you, Sammy." She promised with all her heart and soul, "I will protect you forever."

John looked over her shoulder, "I will love you, son." He whispered, arms circling his wife's frame lovingly. "I will love you forever."

Neither noticed the change.

* * *

"I would die to protect you," she reminds her infant son as her spirit ascends. Her last grasp of reality a wisp of relief. "You're safe now."

* * *

"It's okay, Sammy." Dean whispers, looking up at the burning building.

"You're safe now," Then Mary was gone.

John came running out not long after, less than a moment had passed – yet a lifetime was decided.

* * *

"I'll protect you, Sammy."

A big brother made a pledge, a promise, a commitment.

Nothing was stronger than that.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

"_You know what demons don't understand?" The female voice asked lazily._

"_The basic laws of civilization?" The second voice, a male this time, answered sarcastically, " How to interact with humans? How to fake ignorance? How to keep fighting? To up killing scores by making necessary sacrifices? Algebra? How to cook? Sex?"_

_The girl rubbed the charm dangling from her neck between two fingers, looking thoughtful, smirking only slightly at her partner's irritated response. "Actually… yes." She made her voice purposely surprised._

"_Which one?" The man snapped, stepping towards her threateningly, her smirk was in place, which was okay, as she was sitting with her back towards him. _

"_Oh, ya know…" she drew the words out calmly, one hand never leaving the charm that rested at the hollow of her throat. In one fluid motion she had her body flung halfway around, her arm held steady._

_The dagger she was wielding, now deeply imbedded just below the man's ribcage, overshadowed the man's own knife, which fell harmlessly to the floor after a brief moment of timelessness. His face held a permanent look of disbelief as he crumbled to the ground next to it. _

"_That bit about sacrifices." She finished her previous thought, smiling – one might say sadly – as she studied the body on the floor. _

_She continued to rub the charm._

Dean and Sam: Childhood

Sam: Sometimes I think dad hates me.

Dean: Sometimes he thinks you hate him.

Sam: …

Dean: Sammy?

Sam: Sometimes I do.

Present Day:

It was noon before Dean woke up that first day; the first day Sam had the vision. The younger brother had been on the laptop for hours before the sun had even risen, not sure what he was looking for, but glad for the first time in weeks to have something to do.

"Hey," Sam's voice was raspier than he'd predicted it would be when he greeted his brother's now awake form, it made him sound cautious, almost scared of the older man; as if Dean were a wild animal that needed to be handled with caution. "How'd you sleep?"

If Dean noticed the hesitancy in Sam's voice, he didn't comment on it; just sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. "The pills knock me out pretty good." Which the younger man already knew, having been witness to it for the past two and a half weeks, but needed to hear each morning regardless. Not for the actual knowledge, but just to hear Dean's voice.

"What about you?" Dean countered after several long moments.

Sam, having already turned back to the computer, wasn't expecting the question at all - he was thrown. "Huh?" He faced his brother again.

"How'd you sleep?" Dean asked clearly, omitting the usual sarcasm, and inserting instead a seriousness that, up until the accident, Sam hadn't thought he was capable of possessing.

Not wanting to lie, the taller brother simply shrugged.

"Yeah," Dean sighed sadly, and looked as if he was going to say something more – then changed his mind. "Yeah," he repeated and hung his head low, running his hands through his hair almost painstakingly, before getting up and making his way slowly into the hotel bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Sam took a deep breath as soon as he heard the shower start up, copying his brother's earlier movements, he felt the scar on the side of his head, not yet faded as he'd just had the stitches removed a few days ago. Most of the injury was hidden under his mess of shaggy hair, making it easy for him to ignore for the most part.

Sam knew they wouldn't be able to stay here much longer – the moderately priced hotel room they'd been camping out in since Dean was released from the hospital. The room was nice, comfortable, clean; and the longer they stayed there, the more danger they were in.

Yet Sam had bigger things on his mind, and the dwindling money value of their fake credit card was pushed from his thoughts almost as soon as he turned back to the computer screen. It was an occult site, with informational pages ranging from poltergeists to human demon hosts, and everything in-between. Sam had found what he'd been looking for as soon as he clicked on _Common Occult Tools. _

He'd read all the information on the page by the time Dean finally emerged from the bathroom; far from looking refreshed, Dean looked worse than he had in days.

"I feel like crap," The elder man mumbled, sitting tiredly on the edge of Sam's bed – Sam told himself it was simply because his happened to be located closer to the bathroom door, not because Dean had forgotten which one had been his.

"Took the words right outta my mouth," Sam admitted, exiting the web page inconspicuously and turning his attention entirely to his big brother. "You alright?"

"I'm not sure, Sammy." The words scared Sam, because Dean never admitted defeat, especially not to him. Although it had been a life changing couple of weeks.

It wasn't every day that a demon succeeded in tearing them apart.

In fact, this was only the third time this had happened to them.

Three times in one lifetime.

"Maybe you should go back to sleep," Sam suggested protectively, following his thoughts to their logical conclusion.

"I slept all night," Dean protested half-heartedly, already tipping slightly towards the pillow.

"Drug induced sleep," Sam reminded, wondering absently how many painkillers his brother had left anyway, "Sleep for real, you'll feel better."

Dean nodded, head hitting the pillow moments later, "You get some sleep too," his words were slurred and his eyes already shut.

"Okay," Sam agreed anyway, knowing his brother wanted to hear it; even if it was a lie. "Goodnight."

"'Night, little brother."

"_I'll protect you, Sammy." _Big brother never lied.

Sam felt like crying.

* * *

_I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. _

* * *

TBC... 


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sam and John: The end of an era

John: Fine! You wanna leave, you wanna _abandon_ us, that's fine!

Sam: I'm not –

John: But you better stay gone.

Sam: What?

John: You heard me, Sam. You walk out that door now, you don't even _think_ about coming back!

Sam: If that's what you really want.

John: It is.

Sam: Fine.

* * *

"No, it was a _dagger," _Sam repeated to the elderly woman, annunciating as best he could, making sure the store owner in need of a hearing aid didn't think he'd said bagger or cadaver again. "Like a knife." 

"Oh, oh," the white haired lady finally seemed to understand. "The _dagger_, yes, that's been in our store for nearly a decade."

Sam waited patiently for a moment, before widening his eyes slightly, expectantly. "Well?"

He repeated his question of earlier. "Do you remember who you sold it to?"

"Oh, I don't know," she sounded exasperated, "You'd have to check with my husband. He handles those things, or he did."

Sam gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to snap, thinking maybe he should have listened to Dean; perhaps it was too early to resume their usual hunting practices.

"Okay," he drew out the word slowly. "Where's your husband? Can I talk to him?"

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, "Who'd you say you were?"

"I'm a police officer." He repeated his cover story, checking the clock on the wall behind her head subconsciously, knowing it was still early.

"You 'aint dressed like no cop,"

"I'm off duty," he explained his civilian clothing. "Do you want to see my badge again?"

She seemed to consider it, weighing the option, Sam kept his teeth clenched. Before she actually vocalized a response, the bell above the door jingled, indicating the arrival of new clientele.

"Hello there," she called to them pleasantly, looking past Sam.

"Hi," one of the two young women called back. "Can you help me out Aggie, I'm looking for a good wedding present. You know Suzy and Carl finally got hitched."

"They did _not_," The storeowner – Aggie, apparently – exclaimed excitedly, seeming to forget about Sam's existence all together.

"Yep," the young woman confirmed, sharing a grin with her friend. "Few days ago at the

Justice of the peace. They're still on their _honeymoon_ out in the city. We're gonna have a party all set up for 'em when they get back."

"Jesus Heaven and Mary," Aggie laughed, "Well, how'd you find out 'bout all this?" She circled the counter.

"Hey," Sam interrupted before the two could continue their gossip, Aggie turned back to him. "Your husband?" He remained in a respectively quiet voice.

"He's upstairs," she sighed after another brief moment of hesitation, and pointed to the partially hidden stairs to the far left of the staircase. "Listen here," she warned as Sam started to head in that direction, "Mitch… he's been sick for a while now, and he don't need any stress, ya hear?"

Sam, who had expected a story of this nature, nodded and smiled. "Don't worry, ma'am, I just want to ask him a few questions." He would have tipped his hat at this point, had he been wearing one.

"Alright then," Aggie nodded, giving Sam the permission he needed to cross the store and make his way up the stairs.

The tail end of the women's gossiping faded as he ascended the staircase, and was out of hearing range all together by the time he reached the apartment door. Sam took a deep breath and knocked lightly, a big part of him was praying that there would be no answer – that he would have an excuse not to fight this battle.

"Yeah?" A gruff voice called from inside.

No such luck.

Sam called back to the man, using the alias he'd assumed with Aggie downstairs and explained briefly what he wanted. Mitch opened the door without much hesitancy.

The old man was small in stature, but it was an unnatural small, one that indicated clearly that Mitch used to be a much bigger man; until old age and looming death had taken it all away.

Sam and Dean: At the hospital

Dean: Dad looks almost small.

Sam: You should be in bed.

Dean: I never thought dad could look small, ya know? It's wrong.

Sam: You're gonna pull your stitches again.

Dean: Remember when he tried to teach you how to drive?

Sam: Dean…

Dean: Ended up yelling at each other so bad you nearly crashed.

Sam: _Dean._

Dean: I had to teach your stubborn ass.

Sam: …and I still crashed.

* * *

"I sold that knife nearly a month ago," Mitch and Sam were sitting at the small kitchen table, Sam was sipping the coffee the elderly man had provided for him gratefully, having had only Gas Station sludge yet that morning. "To a girl, few years younger than you, maybe," Sam was eyed curiously. 

"I'm relatively new at this," Sam answered the unasked question. "Kind of a rookie."

"Figured," Mitch smiled. "Where's your partner at?" Sam raised his eyebrows, "What?" Mitch defended, "I watch cop shows."

Sam smiled sadly, "Ah, I'm off duty right now," he admitted. "My partner doesn't even know I'm here."

"That legal?" He questioned worriedly.

"Yeah," Sam assured. "Now, Mr. Gr-"

"I told you, boy, call me Mitch."

"Mitch," Sam amended, "This girl."

"Right," he got back to his story, "Not much younger than you, I remember her 'cause she had a…this tattoo, 'round her arm," he used one of his hands to circle his own, "Right below her elbow. Snakes with faces on 'em, horrible image, Aggie went on about it for hours."

Sam's mind went back to his vision – the girl had been wearing long sleeves. "Okay," the younger of the two nodded, "And she bought the dagger a month ago?"

"That's right," Mitch agreed. "Now you say that dagger's a murder weapon?"

"It's a possibility," Sam told him. "Can you tell me how you acquired it?"

"Came over with Aggie's grandma from Northern Ireland, priced it a pretty penny too." Mitch sounded as if he'd been unsettled by such a young girl buying such an expensive item to begin with.

Sam made a note of this in his police-looking notebook and let silence stretch between them. "Is that all you know about it?" Sam asked, not expecting a real answer, but when Mitch didn't say anything, he looked up. "Mitch?"

"There're legends," he spoke in low, yet doubtful, tone. "Stories that Aggie's family always told. My wife never believed a word of it."

"I need to know everything you know about the dagger, Mitch," Sam spoke firmly, "I believe the girl in possession of it may be using it in a sort of occult practice."

"Occult?" Mitch's eyes widened. "Like Magic? Witches?"

"Yes," Sam answered bluntly, not wanting to beat around the bush. "Like evil witches who practice human sacrifice." And discuss the complexities of demons, he added to himself. "Now I need to know the story."

Mitch sighed, looking like he wanted to protest, but knew it would be fruitless. "Well, okay, it goes like this," he leaned forward, and by reflex, so did Sam. "A young girl, someone born into as family of…_evil, _will get the knife and use it. Use it draw her own blood and share it with her daughter, then that daughter will do the same."

Sam's brow creased, "And what…"

"It's said," Mitch continued, "That with each generation, the women get stronger, more evil, and they live longer, until one day, one of them becomes immortal."

"They never die," Sam hadn't expected that, hadn't wanted to hear anything even remotely this complicated. "And they keep doing evil. Killing."

Mitch laughed, nervously, purposely trying to break the tension now present in the room. "Son, that's just a story. A legend. Them things don't really happen. People can't live forever."

"In theory," Sam mumbled.

Mitch heard the words, and seemed angered by them. "People can't live forever," he repeated, more forcefully. "If you don't believe that, you 'aint got no right bein' any sort a cop."

"Look, sir," Sam decided to placate him, "All I know it that someone bought that knife and now someone else is missing. Maybe it is just a legend, but if someone out there believes it, thinks they can live forever, then they're more of a danger than you could possibly imagine."

Mitch snorted, "Listen here, son." He growled, "I know exactly what people would do for life. I know dying, I think I know a little bit _more _about death than you do, anyway."

"What?" The comment nearly took Sam's breath away.

"I'm dying, Sam."

* * *

"_I'm gonna die, Sam… and you can't stop it."_

"_Watch me."_

* * *

"_Your father's gonna die," the doctor finally told Dean firmly, after re-stitching the wound in his side. The elder brother had tried to physically beat the doctor into giving him a different diagnosis. "You can't stop that." _

"_Why not?" Dean had pleaded with Sam after the man was gone. "You stopped it when I was dying. Why can't we do it again?" Tears were clouding his eyes, infiltrating his voice. Sam couldn't move. _

"_Sammy?"_

"_You should go see him," he forced the words out. "Sit with him, say goodbye."_

"_What about you?"_

_His eyes shut for a moment, in that moment he blocked out reality; the hospital, the sanitizer smell he would connect for the rest of his life, to death. Just like the smell of burning flesh, the sound of fire. So many things led back to death. _

_So many endings._

"_I'll be there soon."_

* * *

"My dad died two weeks ago," Sam snapped, anger clouding all rational emotion. "Don't you dare tell me I don't know anything about death." 

Mitch opened his mouth, but Sam didn't let him get whatever words he was planning on speaking out, all the anger and worry that had been accumulating for the last nineteen days finally rose to the surface.

"How old are you? How many kids do you have? I bet you have great-grand kids, don't you?" It was a rhetorical question by default; Sam didn't stop ranting long enough to let him answer. "My dad was fifty-one, okay? My mom was twenty-seven. My girlfriend was twenty-two. So don't you dare sit there and preach to me about death. Because from where I'm sitting, you're pretty damn lucky."

Mitch seemed struck dumb by Sam's outburst, and the youngest Winchester was out of breath by the time he finished. Tears gathered in his eyes as well, but he blinked those away, annoyed.

"Sam…" Mitch started, and for a second Sam though he was going to offer some epic apology, which the young man wasn't terribly opposed to. If anything, he was sure he deserved it. Yet all Mitch said was, "You're not a cop, are you?"

Sam didn't answer, just continued staring at a spot on the wall, behind the old man's head. "Did the girl pay for the dagger with cash or a credit card?"

"Credit."

"I need to see that receipt." His voice was calm again; had switched to almost emotionless, in fact.

"I have all the receipts in a folder in the bedroom." He paused, either debating with himself over whether or not to say something, or waiting to see if Sam would. Neither happened, and eventually he got up, making his way slowly into another room, which Sam assumed was the bedroom.

As soon as Mitch was out of sight, Sam let his head fall down, resting it heavily on his arms, folded atop the wooden table, knocking the now cold cup of coffee away from him slightly as he did.

"God, Dean," he mumbled to himself. "I need you for this shit." He took a deep breath. "I need you."

* * *

_I sought my God, but my God eluded me._

* * *

TBC... 


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The Winchesters: A fairy tale

Sam: Dean, tell me a story.

Dean: Aren't you a little old for that, buddy?

Sam: No.

Dean: You're eight.

Sam: Not for another week.

Dean: I don't know, Sammy…

Sam: Please, Dean. Please, please, please.

Dean: Well, okay. I guess, if you really want one.

Sam: Yay!

Dean: Calm down and get in bed or deal's off. Okay? Good. You ready?

Sam: Yeah.

Dean: Alright, Once apon a time-

Sam: Don't you need a book?

Dean: Nah, kiddo, not for this one.

Sam: Okay, keep going.

Dean: Gee, thanks. Now, Once apon a time, there was a family. A family of warriors.

Sam: Like knights with swords who fight dragons?

Dean: Yeah, sorta. They fight a whole bunch of bad guys. All the time, every day, they fight.

Sam: Why?

Dean: Well, because that's their job.

Sam: How come?

Dean: Because a long, long time ago, before the story even started, something really bad happened to the mom.

Sam: Like the something really bad that happened to our mommy?

Dean: Yeah, kiddo, just like that.

Sam: What happened?

Dean: Well, this really bad thing took the mommy, and made the daddy really sad –yes, just like how daddy's sad a lot.

Sam: I don't think I like this story.

Dean: But do you wanna hear it?

Sam: Is there a happy ending?

Dean: Yeah.

Sam: Then, Okay.

Dean: So this family of warriors, they spend their whole lives hunting evil things, saving innocent people. And the mom watches them, all the time. She protects them from Heaven, helps them fight.

Sam: Do they fight forever?

Dean: Come on, Sammy, what kind of happy ending would that be?

Sam: When do they stop being warriors?

Dean: Once they find the evil thing that took their mommy away. Once they get… once they find Peace.

Sam: Like Pastor Jim says you do by talking to God?

Dean: Yeah, a little like that. Only with more fighting, and not as much praying.

Sam: Is that what we do, Dean? Is that what all daddy's stories are about? The ghosts? The bad things he talks about? Are we the warriors?

Dean: Yeah, Sammy. This is our story.

Sam: Daddy never sounds happy when _he_ talks about it.

Dean: Well, that's because dad doesn't know the end of the story yet.

Sam: But you do?

Dean: Sure. It ends like all fairy tales end. The family of warriors catch the bad guy, they kill him, make him pay for taking their mommy away, then the father and the sons all live happily ever after.

Sam: All of us?

Dean: Yup.

Sam: Happily ever after? Like, forever?

Dean: Yeah, that's the idea.

Sam: How come daddy doesn't know all that? I bet it'd make him less sad all the time if he knew.

Dean: Maybe, Sammy, but you can't ever tell him, okay?

Sam: Why?

Dean: You're not supposed to know the end of the story ahead of time.

* * *

"_I'll protect you, Sammy."_

_A big brother made a pledge, a promise, a commitment. _

_Nothing was stronger than that._

* * *

I sought my brother…

* * *

"You still working that case? Your vision?" Dean asked, but Sam could tell by the pleading tone in his voice that he didn't really want to know.

Still, Sam couldn't lie to Dean, even if he wanted him to. "Yeah," he sighed. "I think I have it figured out, I just have to go torch some bones tomorrow."

"Yeah?" Dean sounded hopeful. "What was up?"

Sam took a seat on his own bed, across from his brother's, glad to see that Dean was up and about on his own merit, and not looking any worse for the wear.

"This blessed Dagger from an Irish cult," he repeated the legend Mitch had shared with him.

"So the girl in your dream was an immortal witch?" Dean sounded worried, and Sam didn't blame him, he had been too, when he'd first come to that same conclusion.

"Nah," he shrugged off the idea lightly, "Just a corporal ghost who thought she'd be able to bring herself back to life."

"Corporal? So she _was _a witch before she died?"

"Yeah," Sam admitted, "But not from the family whose magic originally made the thing. She just bound it to herself. Which makes my life easier, 'cause as soon as I burn the bones, the dagger'll lose power."

"And probably disincarnate," Dean added thoughtfully.

"Here's to hopin'," Sam said lightly.

"Where's the body?"

"A county over. The girl knew about the knife, knew what it could do, before she died. She bound it to herself then, that's why she's so powerful now."

"But she's been feeding off human souls, trying to contact demons?"

"Talking about demons," Sam clarified. "I don't know what her plans are – or were – but it doesn't matter. She'll be gone tomorrow."

Dean was silent for a while, and Sam studied him, wondering if it was too soon to dive back into the hunting. If Dean was still too sick, too emotionally vulnerable.

Eventually his brother asked, "So this witch, she knew she was going to die? Before hand?"

This really did hit too close to home, Sam realized now.

Way too close.

"Yeah," he swallowed thickly. "She had terminal cancer."

"Oh."

The Hospital

Sam listened from the doorway.

"I love you, son," John's voice was raspy, full of pain, each syllable an effort. "I know I don't say that enough. I didn't..."

"It's okay, dad," Dean interrupted, and Sam could hear him trying to be strong. "I know."

"I made a promise to your mother, Dean," John rasped, and Sam was glad he couldn't bear witness to the look on his brother's face, the one that was always present when their father talked about their mother. "They day you were born, I promised to protect you. She promised to love you. And the day... the day Sammy was born... Mary promised to protect him, and I promised to love him."

"Dad..."

"I had forgotten that until just now." Their father sounded as if he'd figured out something monumentally important. "And the day... the day she died... you promised to protect Sammy, and to love him. I think I get it now."

"Dad, what..."

"I love you, Dean." John repeated. "And I love your brother. But you boys don't need me."

"Dad," this time it was Dean and Sam whispering in unison.

Sam couldn't bear to play spectator anymore, he entered the hospital room, stood as a solitary figure in the doorway. Dean glanced to him, his eyes were pleading, and his entire body screamed defeat. John looked sad.

A moment later, the eldest hunter's throat was cleared, and his tone serious. "Listen to me, boys." He ordered. "I'm gonna die."

* * *

_"... gonna die..."_

_Dean._

_The doctor. _

* * *

_"Why, Sam?"_

_Jessica._

* * *

_"Mary! No!" _

_Death._

* * *

"Dad," Both pleaded.

"...and I'm gonna be with your mother again."

* * *

_"I love you, Mary," John whispered in her ear, sun setting in the background._

_"We're gonna make such beautiful children together," she promised one cold winter day._

_"I want a son," John told her that first night. "Two sons. So they can be brothers."_

_"Brothers are timeless," she whispered. And that night, Dean was created._

_Life._

* * *

"Mary," he whispered to himself.

And far from giving them the last parting instructions both had - on some level - expected, John drifted away from them; a peaceful look on his face. He seemed not scared of death, but happy to embrace it's relief. The fight and fuel was not leaving his body unjustly, for it was his time to go.

"Love you,"

His least words were barely a breath, and Dean and Sam would never know if was talking to his sons or his wife.

Or both.

* * *

"I'm sorry for your loss." Sympathy.

* * *

"It was meant to be." Fate.

* * *

"We're gonna be okay, right Dean?"

* * *

_I sought my brother..._

_And I found all three_

* * *

End.

Author's Note: I had to do it. I had to write a post-season finale before season 2 started. I hadn't planned on doing this, I didn't even really want to, but there it is. Thoughts?

More things that don't belong to me:

I sought my soul, but my soul I could not see. I sought my God, but my God eluded me. I sought my brother and I found all three. Author Unknown

Sibling relationships - and 80 percent of Americans have at least one - outlast marriages, survive the death of parents, resurface after quarrels that would sink any friendship. They flourish in a thousand incarnations of closeness and distance, warmth, loyalty and distrust. Erica E. Goode, "The Secret World of Siblings," _U.S. News & World Report_, 10 January 1994


End file.
